She turned, her gaze straying out the mullioned window, her spirits lifting as the nearby rooftops turned rose with the tint of sunset. She let the wispy skirts of her masquerade gown fall back into graceful folds, a fierce resolve and gladness singing in her veins as she thought of the other dress Sir Ascot and her father had commissioned—the wedding gown with its stifling lace and heavy embroidery, which would never leave the shop of the seamstress who even now stitched upon it. By the time the sun rose on the morrow she would be far from Carradown's wintry gloom, far from Sir Ascot and the father who loathed her. Free.
Her fingertips smoothed over the soft swell of her stomach, the slight fluttering of life within infinitely precious, infinitely painful. Free? Nay, never free of the hauntings of tormented emerald eyes, broken pleas that still turned her dreams to nightmares.
"Tade." She formed his name lovingly with her lips, the memory of gasping it through laughter, crooning it in tenderness, crying it out in the fierce grip of passion filling her with aching emptiness. Even here in her silk-lined prison, far away from Donegal's hills, she had heard the tales of the Black Falcon's exploits. It was vengeance, the peaked-faced maids claimed, that drove the blackguard rebel to slash himself and his band of men in a fiery swath of fury across the emerald hills. Vengeance for the death of a common priest, fury against a woman who had betrayed the rebel rogue. And it could only be Satan himself who shielded the brigand in raids that should have left any mortal man dead.
Maryssa clasped her arms against her tender breasts, a tightness gripping her chest. Tade . . . lightsome, loving Tade, robbed of Devin's steadying hand, robbed of faith, of trust, left only with the searing imprint of her own betrayal to scar him. In her endless days at Carradown not an hour had passed in which Maryssa had not closed her eyes to recall the memory of Tade's face when he had first made love to her, or to cherish the image of his laughter the night he had stood naked, hauling her from the lake.
Her hands had ached with wanting to touch him, her mouth with wanting to kiss him, her body turning traitor as well, tormenting her with dreams of their joining, only to jeer at her and snatch him away or whirl her again into the prison yard at Rookescommon, Devin's pale face shifting until it was Tade who stood so gallantly beneath the hangman's noose.
But no matter how she fared once she escaped her father's grasp, she could never go to Tade, find him, hold him. She had lost him forever in that instant when she had emptied Mab Hallighan's potion into his leathern jack of ale.
Her heart twisted, the pain that never fully left her cutting blade-sharp, but she straightened her spine, her hand splaying again over the place where her babe lay safe. Nay, she had more of their loving to cling to than Tade did, and she would dare any danger, confront any nemesis to guard this tangible symbol of the love they had shared.
Foreboding slid down her spine as Sir Ascot's skeletal face rose to haunt her. If ever the sinister knight suspected that she was carrying a child . . . if ever her father discovered that she sheltered Tade Kilcannon's bastard within her womb, she could only imagine what might happen. She shuddered. The babe within her was lusty, strong, swelling its gentle world until soon even raising the waistlines of her skirts would not conceal it from those who would crush it if they knew it lived inside her.
Maryssa's gaze shifted to the window, the parcel of clothes, two treasured books, and a faded blue ribbon that had decked a tree castle an eternity ago, catching her eye. It was nearly time for the maid to come to help her dress. She would have to trust the deepening shadows of sunset to hide the bundle of clothes from suspicious eyes until she could retrieve it.
Hastening to where the parcel lay upon the floor, she picked it up and went to the window. The icy latch was stiff as she shoved it upward and flung the sash wide. How many times had she opened that window during the days she had been held captive, staring down to the freedom of the street below. It had beckoned her, tempted her with memories of Tade's reckless scaling of Nighwylde's walls, the shallow grooves cut into Carradown's stone seeming to mock her, threatening her with a fall that would crush her spine or drive the babe from her womb if she were to dare it. She had never had much courage, and the life within her was too precious to risk.
The winter wind swept in, so cold it burned her cheeks and her breasts through the thin chemise as she held the bundle over the ledge and let it drop the three floors to the ground. It had scarce struck the mounds of snow below when Maryssa stiffened at the sound of quick, light footsteps approaching down the hall.
Hastily, she pulled the window shut and darted over to sit upon the dainty chair beside the dressing table. She heard the bolt being slid to the side, heard the door latch click open, beckoning her to freedom.
* * *
Like carved marionettes trapped on the strings of a sinister puppeteer, the figures moved across the ballroom floor, their bodies cloaked in dominoes, faces obscured by velvet masks, as though something hideous lay beneath. Something that lurked about brittle smiles tainted with cunning, or the cynical curl of cruel lips. It was as though in the mystery of the masking every feral instinct within the guests at Carradown had risen to the surface, leaving all, from the most elegant powered dandy to the dowdiest spinster, hungry to feed upon secrets and weaknesses, to stalk like savage wolves anything that smacked of intrigue.
Maryssa's gaze swept surreptitiously about the crowded floor, her nerves knotting, tangled through with foreboding. Aye, the guests Sir Ascot had invited to celebrate his betrothal had more the look of circling beasts than of peers deep in revelry. And the focus of their attention—for good or ill-- was the notorious woman who had left England in disgrace and had now returned to wed the notable Sir Ascot Dallywoulde.
Even the supposed anonymity of the masquerade had failed to shield Maryssa, whispers about the swan's identity having begun the moment she entered the room. And from the instant she had first heard the murmurs, felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon her, Maryssa had sensed who had penetrated her disguise and revealed her identity. The cunning Sir Ascot had no doubt known that by exposing her thus she would be under constant scrutiny, trapped even more thoroughly than she had been by the bolt upon her bedchamber door. Even now, the loathsome knight was openly gloating over the success of his plan.
She hazarded a glance to where Ascot hovered near her, dressed as an eerie winged moth, his hair powdered pale as a corpse's face, three black patches affixed in a sinister pattern beneath the edge of his crimson mask. Though Bainbridge Wylder had been lulled by Maryssa's sudden capitulation, Ascot Dallywoulde had delved beneath her facade of obedience, to see the hopes she still harbored of escaping his grasp.
Aye, and through it all—the endless whirling about the floor in minuet and quadrille, the uncounted cups of ratafia, the tiny cakes, even the sly threats couched in flattery that made her cheeks flush and her palms sweat—she could feel Ascot Dallywoulde laughing inside, sneering at her desperation with the glee of a cruel boy watching a nestling squirm upon a spike.
"Do you remember, cousin, the last time you attended a ball at my side?" Ascot's breath ghosted across her neck, sending a shudder down Maryssa's spine. "The night you dared inform Lord Newley that anyone who lusted after the suffering of a child—even, as I recall, a child accused of witchcraft—was more a monster than anything that could be spawned of hell itself?"
Maryssa's gaze leaped to his face, her mouth set in challenge. "Nay, Sir Ascot, your memory does not serve you well," she observed with acid sweetness. "I told Lord Newley that he was a monster for wagering on how long it would take the flames to devour a child. It was you I accused of being a beast more vicious than any that could be spawned of the devil."
Dallywoulde's sneer cracked into an ugly scowl, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Tell me, madam, opposed as you are to the pleasures of the stake and the block, what was it that lured you to that yard in Rookescommon prison before we left that accursed island?"
Maryssa flinched, her gaze snapping up to me
et his, the hungry, vengeful expression on his spectral features making her shield her silk-veiled stomach with her hand.
"Milady?" his voice was thin, sharp, rife with veiled menace.
"I... it is none of your concern."
"None of my concern why my betrothed was wielding a pistol aimed at a papist's heart?" He bent close, his cold hand bruising her wrist. "Certainly even you could not be fool enough to think I'd forgotten your trespasses? Aye, or"—his lips curled into an ugly smirk—"forgiven them. I assure you that once we're wed—"
"Surely milady could wring forgiveness out of a stone if she had need to." The voice was deep, lilting, yet harshened with a chill cynicism that catapulted Maryssa's heart to her toes. She spun away from Sir Ascot's masked features, a giant fist clenching about her lungs as her gaze locked on a black silken hood, the glow from the chandeliers overhead glinting silver upon the embroidered outline of a falcon's sharp talons.
She strangled the cry that rose in her throat, terror driving deep into her breast, coupled with a devastating joy as eyes pierced her through slits in the hood, burning eyes as green as a Donegal glen, yet hard, so hard they tore at her soul. Tade, her heart screamed, pulses thundered. Oh, God, Tade. But she could scarcely breathe, scarcely think, held as she was by their fierce emerald light.
A laugh grated from Sir Ascot's fleshless lips, the sound cutting through Maryssa's shock, sending dread rushing through her veins. "Well carried out, Sir Falcon," Ascot sneered, his fingers plucking at the folds of Tade's mantle. "All you need to complete the costume is a noose about your neck."
She saw the corner of Tade's mouth crook in a mockery of his once-lightsome grin. "The rope has not been woven that will set the Black Falcon of Donegal to dangling beneath a gibbet. Do you not agree, milady?"
Maryssa felt the blood drain from her face, her fingers instinctively reaching out, catching Tade's gauntleted hand. "I—I heard tell of the brigand when I was in Ireland," she struggled to keep the tremor out of her voice. "I can only say I am most glad he is across the sea in Ireland."
"I'll wager you are." There was menace in Tade's voice, silken danger, but Maryssa knew she'd accept whatever his fury would deal her if she could just draw him away from Sir Ascot's cunning gaze.
Her eyes slanted a hasty glance at Ascot, her fingers trembling upon Tade's hand as she saw the calculating light that had entered Dallywoulde's soulless eyes.
"You are acquainted, sir, with my betrothed?" Dallywoulde said.
She saw Tade's cloaked shoulders stiffen, his mouth twist, bitter beneath the edge of his hood. "We met once, sir, but I know her not at all." The words were a small, sharp dagger in Maryssa's heart, and as that implacable green gaze tore away from hers, regarding the masked Sir Ascot, raw horror bolted through her, fear that Tade had not come seeking her at all, but rather to wreak his vengeance upon the man who had murdered his brother. If Tade knew who her betrothed was, if he knew the man whose betrothal was being celebrated here this night . . .
Desperately she raked through her memories, clinging to the knowledge that with Tade she had never named Dallywoulde as the man who was to wed her, had only spoken of some nebulous cousin to whom she had been promised. But the banns had been announced, and the journals had proclaimed the match. Tade only had to ask a few questions of the guests to discover the full horror of her betrayal. Yet the hatred in his green eyes seemed fixed solely upon her, while another emotion—anger, perhaps—was evident in his regard of Dallywoulde's crimson-masked face.
"P-please, Sir Rogue," she said, turning to Tade, frantic to draw him away from the danger she saw brewing. "I do not know you in your masquerade guise, but it would be diverting to attempt to discover your identity during a minuet."
"Diverting?" Take said, bitter. "Nothing would please me more than to divert you, milady."
"Are you not too weary to expend yourself upon the dance floor, beloved?" Sir Ascot's eye glinted warning. "I vow, your eyes seem a trifle glazed, and your hands . . . do they not tremble?"
Maryssa stilled her fingers where they lay upon Tade's and battled to force a smile to her stiff lips. “It is—is the mystery of the masking," she said. "And, perhaps, I confess, a cup too many of ratafia. It will do me much good, I think, to take a turn about the floor, if Monsieur Black Falcon is willing."
"When, pray tell, did my willingness ever come before your desires, milady?"
Her fingers gouged deep into Tade's leather-veiled wrist in warning, and she felt an urge to slap him for his reckless words as she saw Dallywoulde's eyes turn frigid, his lips whitening.
"Go then, cousin, against my wishes," Sir Ascot said, fingering the hilt of the dress sword that hung at his side. “It will not be long before the ring upon your finger will compel you to be wise."
A dangerous glint sparked emerald in Tade's eyes; the muscles beneath Maryssa's fingers were tense, straining. "One could hardly accuse Miss Wylder of being wise," Tade said, shooting Sir Ascot a derisive glance. Maryssa's heart caught in her throat as the two men's gazes clashed, fire to ice. In desperation, she tugged at Tade's cloak-draped arm, fighting to draw him away from what, she sensed in an instant, would flare into a war past reason.
"Please," she begged under her breath. "They—the music is about to begin. Please."
For long seconds fraught with insolence and daring, Tade held the Englishman's gaze until the first strains of the violin moved him to turn to Maryssa and sweep her a mocking bow. "Your pardon, sir," he flung out to Dallywoulde with an arrogant sneer. “It would be unforgivable to disappoint such a lovely partner."
Maryssa was nearly sick with relief as his hand curved beneath her elbow, propelling her out into the midst of the dancers. The eyes that had been turned upon her with curiosity before now gaped through the hundreds of masks with varying degrees of intrigue, envy, and approval, all the women in the room appraising the magnificent spread of Tade's shoulders beneath his cloak, the unmistakable animal grace in a walk that was purely masculine, sensual.
But the simpering belles were not close enough to the dashing "highwayman" to see the emotions that seethed in his eyes. Aye, Maryssa thought, panic fluttering in her breast, if they had been able to espy the tempest roiling beneath the slits in that black hood, even the most man-hungering among them would have fled the ballroom.
She stumbled to a halt, only Tade's hand on her arm saving her from smashing into the back of a stout matron in a purple domino as they entered the line of dancers. The strains of the minuet drifted across the floor, and the guests began to float about the wide expanse of marble to the dulcet melody. Maryssa's feet felt wooden, all sensation centered at the point where Tade Kilcannon's hand held hers. His touch was achingly familiar, his fingers warm even through the black leather gauntlet. But the way his hand held hers was devastatingly impersonal, stiff, as though he could barely stomach being forced to touch her. The fleeting joy she had felt when she first saw him—the tiny stirring of hope that he had softened, that he now understood why she had been compelled to slip the potion into his ale—had vanished, leaving a slow-burning anger at the suspicion that he might well have stormed all the way from Donegal to do nothing but rail at her. Aye, and in his eagerness to lambaste her he had thrown himself into greater peril than he could ever imagine.
"Tade, are you crazed?" she snapped beneath the tones of the music. "Coming here like this, dressed as the Falcon? It is insanity!"
"Nay, milady, insanity is what I was in the grips of the night I let you bed me at the Hangman's Fool."
Shame and guilt fired her cheeks as visions of the last time they had made love flashed across her memory—Tade's hands frantic upon her while her mouth rained kisses on his naked flesh. Her gaze flashed up to where his mouth slashed in an unyielding line beneath the shadow of his three-cornered hat, his eyes giving her no quarter as he forced her into the patterns of the dance.
The laugh that grated across his lips was harsh, hard. "Come now, Maura, no need to play the blushing innoc
ent. It was quite an admirable seduction for one so lacking in experience. And we both know I've been party to enough affaires de coeur to judge."
Pain jolted through Maryssa."Tade, I—," she started to explain, then stopped, knowing that nothing she could say would drive the scorn from those eyes. Yet she had done the right thing—would do it again if fate allowed her to play the scene over. Her chin tilted up in shaky defiance.
"Very wise, my love, to keep your lies to yourself," Tade said. “It would be a waste of breath, now that the veils of love have been ripped from my eyes. Of course, considering the myriad betrayals you wreaked, I had thought that you might feel some anguish over Devin's death. But,” his gaze swept the marble moldings, the chandeliers dripping with hundreds of candles, the richness of her gown, “it is evident you've not been wasting away with either grief or guilt."
Maryssa clenched her teeth, hurt and indignation welling up inside her. "I've grieved for Devin," she said. "Aye, and I've mourned what I lost that night when I— I eased you into sleep."
Tade's acid laugh seared her, making her snatch up her fragile defenses, drawing them about the raw pain that clung to her heart.
"God's feet, milady, you've learned to speak most prettily. 'Eased me to sleep,' did you, like a mother loving her babe? Only it was no lullaby you spun for me, was it? Nay, it was a drug slipped into my drink, then urged upon me with the wiles of a body dressed in harlot's garb. When I think of the joy I felt when first I saw you in that doorway . . . When I think of how I made love to you, flung myself into the jaws of your trap, it turns my stomach."
The tears Maryssa thought had dried up forever stung at the back of her lids, but she turned her gaze back up to Tade's, struggling to keep the anguish from her voice. "You put yourself to a deal of trouble to inform me how reprehensible you think me. Now that I can carry that wonderful gift through the rest of my life, I think it would be good for you to leave."